Subtle Changes
by Mara O
Summary: An "Immortal Seven" Highlander AU story. Ezra's watcher finally witnesses a duel, and it becomes much more than just a light show.


Subtle Changes   
by Mara   
calikochan@hotmail.com   
A Magnificent Seven/Highlander excursion   
Based on Katherine's "Immortal Seven" challenge responses. (In a nutshell, the Magnificent Seven are Highlander-style Immortals. Sam Calkins is Ezra's Watcher. I haven't seen many episodes of Highlander, but I believe that I have the details down fairly well.) Used with permission.   
**Please see my bio for the link to the other stories in this AU. Read them, as they are good.**   


Part 1 – The Bar 

Sam Calkins sighed as he sat slowly down onto a barstool at Joe's Tavern. _Standish was right last time,_ he thought. _Jet lag is awful._ Sam ordered a beer from Joe in an almost halfhearted fashion, but when it arrived he did not finish it off in the same manner. As soon as the empty glass hit the bar, another one appeared in front of him, followed quickly by a third. Joe seemed to know that whatever Sam's trouble was, it could be alleviated, if not cured, by a cold one. 

Almost exactly ten minutes later Sam was more than a little tipsy, but not enough so that he missed the entrance of his "charge," Ezra Standish. Sam had lost track of the Immortal _…again…_ about three-quarters of an hour previously. _I really should just give up on trying to see him duel,_ Sam chastised himself. _I just tire myself out and annoy him._ After all, if the duel was held in the vicinity of a tavern or bar, then nine times out of ten that fine establishment would soon be seeing Standish's patronage. Tonight Standish had passed up another, closer bar on the way to Joe's, but that did not truly surprise Sam. _It's gotta be prearranged, but damn, how do they do it?_ Sam asked himself, frustrated. _Standish was in Morocco twenty-four hours ago, and now he's walking in, fresh as a daisy, from a duel in Washington state. I wish someone would lay me odds as to whether the other six are going to show up in the next hour; I'd take _that_ bet in a heartbeat._

Sam turned back to his beer just as Standish turned toward the bar. The move felt a little obvious, but he supposed it didn't matter; the quick-witted Immortal knew that Sam was following his every move. Sam harbored a suspicion that Standish had been aware of his presence for quite some time, a minor oddity in itself. Ezra was extraordinarily quick-witted and paid careful attention to detail, no matter what he was doing; be it playing a thousand-dollar hand of poker or merely chatting with his friends, Ezra Standish was on top of it. 

Ezra's friends… 

The Watcher Society had existed for centuries, but very rarely did they see even two Immortals remain close friends. The circle of comrades known as "The Magnificent Seven" defied logic at times: seven Immortals, who were in theory all in competition for the mythical Prize, remaining close to each other for over a hundred years and counting. Their beginnings were traced in a Chronicle, dated 1899, that told of seven disparate gunmen hired to protect a small western town. This was all well and good, but the one thing that no one could figure out was how many of the seven were already Immortal by then. Perhaps some of them had died there; maybe all of them were five hundred at the time. It remained a mystery…just like Standish himself. 

On the bar, ten feet to Sam's right, Standish had just laid down three crisp hundreds. "I do believe you know what to do, Mr. Dawson," Standish said with a wink. 

"In most situations, I do, sir," was Joe's reply. "Especially when it comes to dealing with customers such as yourself." 

The comment caught Sam off guard, but not Ezra Standish. The twinkle in his light green eyes was unmistakable. "And what type of customer would you judge me to be, Mr. Dawson?" 

Joe shrugged, one-shouldered. "The kind who wants to set up a bar tab for his buddies. And," the barkeep added, "the kind who wants a bottle of single malt scotch put on it first." Joe was a good bartender, and had a remarkable memory for faces. He also possessed a good memory for what exactly those faces had ordered, even if - as in Standish's case - it had been almost two years since they'd visited. Standish smiled widely as the expensive scotch was produced, and Sam caught a rare glimpse of the gambler's gold tooth. 

"Correct as usual, sir!" The door of the Tavern opened, and a tall blonde man entered. Without even turning around, Standish said, "I believe I shall also be requiring a bottle of your finest whisky." Standish paused as Joe set the bottle on the bar, then turned to give the black-clad blonde a once-over. "On second thought, we had better make that two." Sam glanced quickly towards the back table, where Chris Larabee had just seated himself. The grim look on Larabee's face more than explained the extra alcohol. Standish gracefully gathered the bottles and gave a nod to Joe. "Mr. Dawson." 

Then Standish did something wholly unprecedented. As he passed Sam on the way to the back table, he also nodded and said "Mr. Calkins." 

Sam recovered from the surprise just in time to say "Mr. Standish" in reply, confusion evident in his voice.. 

Sam contemplated his beer in earnest. _Why on earth…was it because of that talk we had last time we were here? Returning the favor, so to speak?_ Sam hadn't tried to be a hero those two years ago...he'd just thought that the usually outspoken Immortal could use some company. Sam had rarely seen Ezra Standish alone for any extended length of time, and it had seemed wrong to let the man wallow in self-pity. 

Over the next few hours, Joe's Tavern became busier and busier. A not-insignificant amount of business was done with Standish, since the back table had quickly sported a party of seven, all of whom were welcome to his tab. Joe's was not a frequent haunt of the Magnificent Seven, but that was only because they had no real favorite spots. Every so often, whether it was a period of weeks or years, the Seven would gather at some obviously prearranged spot, though nobody could figure out the signal. Each Immortal's current Watcher had been on the case for years, but the methods remained a mystery. Those six other Watchers all joined Sam at the bar for a time, but none stayed past midnight. 

At five 'till, Nathan Jackson's Watcher stood up and began to fish for his wallet. Turning toward Sam with a sympathetic look. "Why don't you go home, Sam? They ain't goin' anywhere." They all knew the routine by now. A few days, maybe a week together, and then they would go their separate ways. 

Sam shook his head. "I know, Al, I know. I just feel like drowning my sorrows for a little longer." He refused to elaborate. 

"I've been there, Sam, it's ok. Just remember t'get a taxi, huh?" Sam nodded, and Al patted him once on the shoulder before making for the door. 

Sam felt suddenly quite alone, even in the middle of the crowded bar. Perhaps it was the beer, but for one reason or another, he began to hum, quietly. The tune was well-known, and it seemed to at once uplift and depress him. He started to sing it, a little dejectedly. 

_"Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to meeeee…"_ He stopped singing, and began to chuckle at how pathetic he must look. Here he was: a grown man, no wife, no kids, an unforgiving job that no one in their right mind would _ever _believe existed, it was his birthday, and he was alone and drunk. 

_"Happy Birthday, Sam Calkins, Happy Birthday to you!"_

Sam whipped around in surprise and promptly fell off the barstool. Looking up from his new and painful position on the floor, he found himself surrounded by seven men, all of whom were trying not to laugh. A red-jacketed arm reached down and pulled him to his feet. 

"Our apologies for startling you, Mr. Calkins. No permanent harm done, I hope?" Ezra Standish smiled kindly at his Watcher. 

"I don't think so," Sam answered slowly. 

"Excellent! We were just leaving and wished to extend our congratulations on your birthday. Thirty-six, I believe?" Standish shot a significant glance at Larabee, who nodded back and walked toward the door. Five others followed, leaving Sam alone with Standish. 

"Er…I would ask you to join me for a drink," said Sam, "but I think I've had enough." Sam sat himself carefully back down on the barstool. Standish copied him. 

"I'm going to have to agree with you on that point, Mr. Calkins. I had quite a little celebration myself. The little matter of my thirty-sixth birthday tonight." 

"You're kidding." 

"As a matter of fact, I am not. Astounding coincidence, I must say." Standish gave a small grin in response to Sam's upraised eyebrow. "Of course, I have taken it upon myself to mark a rather excessive number of thirty-sixth birthdays. One a year since … well, that would be making it a bit too easy for you, wouldn't it?" 

Sam sighed. "When am I going to stop being surprised at what you do and do not know about me?" 

"Not at any time in the near future, that is something of a certainty," said Standish. "For instance, I am aware of the full extent of the information that you have gathered on me. As such, I am also aware of the deficiencies that exist in that body of knowledge, such as it is." 

_Hardly my fault,_ Sam thought, but he said nothing. 

"Since we have become aquatinted with each other, after a fashion, for a number of years, I thought that a little token of the occasion might be in order." Standish reached inside his coat pocket, but stopped abruptly. He appeared to be suddenly lost in thought. 

"Should I ask, Mr. Standish?" 

Standish blinked, and his attention returned to Sam. "You grow in wisdom every day, my good Mr. Calkins. Normally I would excuse myself, but as I said, I recognize which points of my existence that you have and have not witnessed. I fear that you may have another chance to rectify some of those deficiencies." 

Sam wrinkled his brow and tried to cut through the vagueness of Standish's references. A thought struck him. "You mean there's another…" He trailed off. 

"Sitting outside, waiting for me in all probability. In all likelihood he did not wish to single out one from a group, but I have apparently singled myself out." Standish sighed. "I will extend to you an opportunity, Mr. Calkins: If the gentleman outside wishes to offer me a challenge, I will not only accept, but allow you to spy on me. Would that be an adequate birthday present?" 

Sam hesitated. Standish would, in essence, be risking his Immortal life for Sam's whim. "Would you accept it if I weren't here?" 

"In all probability, yes, I would. There can only be one, Mr. Calkins." 

Sam took a deep breath. "Alright. Let's do it."   
  


Standish returned to the alley where Sam was waiting. "I have arranged to meet him in one hour at the park just outside of town. I would advise you to take cover in the rather thick vegetation available." 

Sam didn't know quite what to say, so they stood in silence for a moment. Suddenly, a question came to him. "What happened earlier, before you came into Joe's? I take it this isn't going to be your second fight tonight." 

"Well, since it is technically the morning of a new day, it would not be even if I had dueled with that young woman prior to meeting my colleagues." 

Sam stopped himself from sighing aloud. "I stand corrected. Should I ask how you got out of it?" 

Standish did sigh. "I merely pointed out to her that the conflict was unnecessary and that she had quite a lot of time ahead of her to begin taking heads, should she choose. She was almost as young as she appeared." 

Sam pondered for a moment, then decided to risk one more question. "Can you really tell that much about someone by their quickening?" 

Standish raised an eyebrow. For a second or two, it looked as though he might not answer, but he gave a prideful smirk and answered merely, "more than most. A conman must know how to read people, after all." 

In his car, alone, en route to the park, Sam wondered about Standish's statement. Sam knew from some of the older Chronicles that Standish had been a con and a cardsharp once, back before he'd met all of the Seven. He'd been apparently quite good at it, and had taken many a dollar from gunslinging saloon patrons. _Was that before or after his first death?_ Sam wondered. _If they'd all died together, in a shootout or something, then that would explain quite a bit._ Sam spent a few minutes envisioning a "Showdown at the OK Corral," starring gunslinger Chris Larabee and his band of seven outlaws. In his mind, they faced off against a heroic sheriff in a white hat and a tin badge, but lost in the end to the sheriff's quick-draw. For some reason, he found it difficult to picture all of them as the 'bad guys.' Even harder to visualize was the fastidious Ezra Standish in some dusty little western town. 

Part 2 – The Park 

_One more branch….there! This will be perfect!_

Sam lay flat on his stomach on the thick tree branch as he waited for the duel to begin. _Amazing how fast one sobers up while climbing trees at one in the morning,_ he mused. He'd made into the tree with only minutes to spare. Not far below him, a squirrel darted up his tree and settled itself on another branch. _Take cover in the vegetation, bah. It might have been a better idea to watch from the ground…_ Oh well. He was up here now, he rationalized. _Might as well settle in to watch the show_. He fished in the pocket of his coat and came up with a pen and his notebook. 

Precisely on the hour, both Immortals stepped into the grassy park area. The space was about the size of a soccer field, and was blocked off from the late-night city noise by numerous layers of large trees. The only impediments were a swingset and three park benches scattered about. 

Sam saw Standish throw his red suit coat over a bench, and he could faintly hear the challenger issue a remark, but the words were indistinct. _This is ridiculous,_ he thought, _if I'm going to be spying, I might as well be able to hear them, too._ As quietly as possible, he made his way back down the tree and set himself down on the carpet of oak leaves under his feet. He picked his way through the artificial forest to a spot on the edge of the grass. A tall ash tree with sturdy, overhanging branches seemed a choice observation platform. Sam began to clamber up, but hesitated when he heard the clash of steel on steel. The duel had begun, and Sam's stomach was suddenly filled with butterflies. He shrugged off the nervous feelings and began to climb. 

Ezra Standish was not at all pleased. What had appeared to be merely an unpleasant diversion and quick battle had become a literal fight for his life. Very, very rarely did Ezra misjudge people, and tonight's mistake seemed to be exacting it is price. 

Ezra skillfully parried an equally skillful thrust, pushed hard, and sent his attacker – one Alex Grayson by name – sprawling. He did not stay down for more than two seconds, but Ezra needed the time to breathe. The Immortal before him was clearly nowhere near as young as he appeared; that much had been immediately obvious. Most people would see his long, blonde hair and painfully loud Hawaiian shirt and take him for a surfer bum. Mr. Grayson played up the stereotype well. His fierce determination and deadly skill with a blade had come as a complete surprise to Ezra. 

An unpleasant thought seeped through Ezra's mind: _He may actually win this fight. I don't know how much longer I can hold him off…_

The branch had looked strong enough to hold Sam, but as he crawled closer and closer to the end, it began to creak dangerously. _I think I'll just stop here,_ Sam thought. He stopped and watched the combat in awe. _Standish is good. Very good…_

The 'beach bum' attacked again, with no sign of wearying. Ezra moved his sword to drive away the sweeping cut, but was a hair too late. Blood seeped from the cut on his arm only for a moment before the wound was engulfed in blue sparks. Grayson stood back with a smug smile on his face. "Gotta hand it to ya, dude," he said, "that's the longest it's ever taken me to draw first blood." 

His cocky attitude enraged Ezra. _This is not just some blood sport for your amusement!_ The second his wound healed, Ezra leaped up and thrust his sword straight at the challenger. Grayson wiped the smile off his face and parried easily. 

_Was Ezra injured? I can't tell. I think he was…I thought I saw quickening flash for a second. _Sam scribbled a coded remark in his notebook. Unconsciously, he crawled further out onto the branch, not hearing the protesting groans of the tree... 

There was a tremendous cracking noise, and the tree branch refused to support Sam Calkins any longer.   
  


Part 3 – Sam in the Middle 

The branch fell, and its passenger tumbled painfully and unfortunately to rest right between the dueling Immortals. "What the…" cried Grayson. "A mortal? That's really against the Rules, dude. No mortal should be allowed to interfere!" And before Ezra could stop him, Grayson brought his blade down through Sam's stomach.   
  


Sam was swimming in a haze of red. The pain was so intense it threatened to black him out, but Sam remained conscious long enough to see Ezra stare down at him, mouth agape… 

Grayson grinned and took his opportunity. Ezra was clearly distracted, and it cost him a steel blade straight through his right collarbone. Ezra fell, not quite dead, but getting there and still unable to fight back properly. He was good with his left hand, but nowhere near good enough to defeat this monster. Ezra knew this, but he tried to rise and at least attempt a good fight. The point became moot when he felt the blade enter his heart, pinning him to the ground. Ezra gasped in pain and grief, and waited for the end.   
  


To Sam, Ezra seemed to fall in slow motion, his sword falling practically on top of Sam. The attacker grinned maliciously and turned his back on Sam to deliver the – at least temporarily – fatal chest wound to Ezra. That done, he pulled his sword up again and held it over Ezra's body, obviously cherishing the moments before the final blow. 

Through the veil of pain, Sam saw his own opportunity. _I'm going to die anyway, and Ezra will die because of me. If that's the case, I'm taking Malibu Ken here with me._ Sam weakly grasped the hilt of Ezra's sword and dragged it toward him. Strengthened suddenly by rage and adrenaline, he climbed to one knee and swung the suddenly featherlight sword. 

The last thing he heard was the _plop_ of a head hitting the ground. 

Part 4 – After   
  


Ezra groaned in pain as life filled him yet again. _The last time I awoke in this condition I'd been shot through the heart with a rifle. Christ have mercy.._. Sensing no one in the immediate vicinity, he lay still until the very worst of the pain had subsided, then eased himself to his feet. 

The sight before him almost made him fall again. His brave Watcher lay dead on the lush grass, gouts of blood staining his white dress shirt. In his hand lay Ezra's distinctive katana, its silver blade smeared with the blood of Alex Grayson. The permanently late Mr. Grayson lay perhaps two feet away from where Ezra had fallen, and his head was another yard away. It did not take a genius to know what Sam's last decision had been. _He… saved my life. His final act was to take that son of a bitch with him._ The experience was new to Ezra. He'd died many times before, had people die around him, and occasionally had people die around him and revive; never yet had he had anyone give their only life for him. 

Feeling suddenly humbled, Ezra knelt next to Sam's body. "My dear Mr. Calkins…" He choked momentarily. "You are a truly remarkable person." He allowed a tear to fall in mute testimony. "Godspeed, my friend." He rose, collecting his sword. He cleaned and sheathed it, all the while trying not to think about what lay behind him. He bent to collect Grayson's sword as well, but before he could grasp it, Ezra felt… 

_The Buzz! Right behind me…_ He snatched up Grayson's sword, simultaneously hoping that he could wield the larger man's sword as well as he could his own, and wondering just how another Immortal had managed to sneak up on him without him feeling the approach. 

The answer reached Ezra as he turned around to discover…nobody behind him. Nobody except Sam. The sword fell from Ezra's hand as he stared at the fallen Watcher. Blue points of electrical energy cascaded around Sam's rapidly healing wound. Slowly, the stare turned to a smile as the Buzz steadily increased and Sam drew a choking breath.   
  


Part 5 – The Hotel 

_Light… too bright… where am I?_

Sam Calkins awoke with a splitting headache to find himself tucked neatly into a hotel room bed. From his prone position, he registered only that the desk lamp was shining directly in his eyes and that Ezra was sitting on the other bed clad in a black robe and pants, apparently meditating. Sam wore a pair of sweatpants, but no shirt. _How did I get into pajamas? _He eased himself up on his elbows, which only worsened his headache. He forced himself into a sitting position against the headboard and glanced over at Ezra. Suddenly, Ezra's pale green eyes blinked open and locked on Sam's dark brown ones. The headache vanished. Sam had time only to blink in surprise before Ezra spoke. 

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Calkins." His expression, instaid of being completely inscrutable, was obviously guarded. 

Sam took a deep breath. With the headache gone, he felt fine. Great, even. "What happened? Where are we?" 

He received a small smile in return. "It is nearing two in the morning and we are in my room at the Oxford Suites in Seacouver. As to what transpired a scant hour ago…" The smile faded. "I am usually loathe to be so blunt, Mr. Calkins, but the bare truth is…you saved my life." 

Images started to come back to Sam, one by one. The duel in the park. The tree branch (_Damn, that was stupid!_ he thought). The sword protruding from his belly… Under the quilt, he placed a hand on his bare stomach. Nothing. No blood, no wound, not even a scar. He blinked, felt his mouth drop open. "How much of that really happened?" 

"All of it." And here, Ezra was smirking, clearly enjoying Sam's confusion. "Up to and including your untimely death." He paused, giving Sam time to remember how to breathe. "I must say, _my _first death was not nearly as…shall we say, dramatic." Ezra grinned, flashing his gold tooth in the dim light. "You are now free to put two and two together." 

Sam blinked. Took a deep breath. "Are you seriously saying that I…" He stopped, not believing his own conclusion. 

"'…am an Immortal,' are the words that I believer you are looking for, Mr. Calkins. And yes, I am 'seriously saying that.' Unless you have some other explanation as to how you managed to survive the debacle earlier this morning." 

Sam dropped back onto his pillow and stared, unseeing, at the ceiling. _Dear God, what do I do now?_ He took another deep breath and ran a hand through his matted hair. Sitting up, he looked an amused Ezra in the eye. "So…what exactly happened…earlier? As I recall, I passed out at some point." 

Ezra chuckled. "Massive trauma and blood loss will do that to a man." Sam glared at him and he continued. "Merely a little black comedy; I apologize. When I first met my esteemed opponent, I sorely misjudged him. I was unprepared for his remarkable skill, and, as you recall, he bested me almost too easily. As he was about to claim my head, however, he made the mistake of turning his back on you." 

Sam winced. "That, I remember." 

Ezra paused. "At some point, you may wish to record his name: the late Mr. Alex Grayson." 

"Right," replied Sam, but then a thought occurred to him. "Am I still going to be your Watcher? I mean…" 

"I see your point," Ezra mused, then laughed. "By all rights, you should be identified and have a Watcher assigned to _you!_" A devious grin crossed his face as a sudden thought occurred to him. _After all, why not?_

Sam looked sideways at Ezra. "I know that look, Standish. What have you got in mind?" 

"Nothing at all," answered Ezra. "Just a tiny germ of an idea…suppose your esteemed colleagues at the Watcher Society were, shall we say, kept in the dark? How long do you suppose it would take them to discover you?" 

Sam gave an amused snort. "As long as none of the others saw me…_deuling_ or anything, I'd say almost indefinitely." 

"'Indefinitely' is precisely how long you could attempt to keep it up, presuming that you are properly instructed in…self defense?" 

"Was that an offer, Mr. Standish?" Sam was genuinely touched by the elder Immortal's caring. His devil-may-care attitude seemed to have dissapeared. 

It honestly hadn't occurred to Ezra that he would personally need to instruct Sam, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. _I would trust no one else. Also, I am heavily in his debt, and this is not one I may skip out on._ "I would be honored to instuct you, Mr. Calkins. I look forward to killing you at least once." The attitude was back. 

"Well," said Sam warily, "we'll see about that.." 

An awkward silence filled the room for a moment. Standish seemed to be considering something. "If I may ask, Mr. Calkins, what was your rationale in picking up my sword?" He seemed genuinely puzzled. 

Sam thought hard. "Mostly," he began slowly, "it was because I knew I was going to die, so what was there to lose? Now that I think about it, I felt guilty that you were in danger. It was my fault: I distracted you." 

"Be it neither here nor there; I will not assign blame," said Ezra. "All's well that ends well, as they say." He rose and walked across to the minibar. "Would you care for some scotch, Mr. Calkins?" 

"Better make it a double," was the reply. 

Ezra poured them each a large glass, handed Sam his, and sat heavily into the easy chair next to Sam's bed. They sat in silence for some time, sipping their drinks. 

"Some birthday, huh?" asked Sam suddenly, raising his glass. 

Ezra smiled. "That it is indeed, Mr. Calkins. That it is indeed."   
  


Epilogue – The Airport 

Four years later, Sam Calkins, age thirty-six, stepped off the plane from Rio de Janeiro to Dallas. He knew he had a good hour before the connecting flight to Denver was due to arrive, so he decided to get himself a coffee. He strolled nonchalantly toward the Starbucks outlet outside the gate and ordered a frappacino. Just as nonchalantly, he sat down at an already-occupied table and began to sip his drink. 

The man opposite him grinned and folded his newspaper. "Why, my dear Mr. Calkins, what a surprise!" 

Sam grinned around a mouthful of whipped cream, swallowed, and replied, "Likewise, Mr. Standish." A hint of sarcasm colored his words. 

"It's been what, three, four years?" Ezra's eyes were shining with humor as he did his best to make the conversation sound totally innocent. This was his element. 

"Four," agreed Sam. "Funny how we keep running into each other. Where are you headed?" 

"Denver. I have an important meeting to attend." 

Sam feigned shock. "Why, so am I! Maybe when we get there, you'll introduce me around?" 

Ezra grinned, somewhat lopsidedly. "Of course."   
  


Sam settled himself in his seat on the plane, after stowing his luggage in an overhead bin. _One of these days,_ he thought rather bitterly,_ Standish is going to have to tell me how on Earth he gets a three-foot Samurai sword through an airline metal detector. _He felt a little naked not to be wearing his trusty replica broadsword, but at least it was in the bin above him. _Antiques dealer, hah. Those 'priceless treasures' which I 'can't let out of my sight' are mostly junk. It's a good story, thought._ He whipped out his notebook and scribbled down a few more notes regarding Standish's latest commercial venture. It would all have to go on disk once they took off, and he'd deliver that disk to the Denver-area coordinator when he got there. Something…Travis, he thought. _I'll look it up when I get there, no rush._   
  
  
  


Once on the plane, Ezra chuckled to himself. _Mr. Calkins is fast becoming the best Watcher I've ever had. He hasn't lost me in years. _Mentally, he rolled his eyes. _Of course, the fact that he can _feel_ me coming helps some. _He heaved a sigh and stared out the window. _Those ignorami of the Watcher Society still don't know what happened, and probably never will. He may have to quit in a decade or so, however. Someone might notice how extremely well-preserved he is…_


End file.
